~Stories by DT~

Regular broadcasting will resume once I can function like a human being again and am no longer in horrible pain.

Rebecca Spencer, 27, is the author of Independence Day, a web fiction murder mystery set in the fictional town of Haven Park,

Rebecca Spencer

Wyoming in the summer of 1966.

From Independence Day website: Nothing much ever happened in Haven Park, Wyoming. Closely knit, deeply religious and with a population of just over 500, it appeared to be a small town just like any other. Then, on the night of July 4, 1966, everything changed forever. Gripped with the horrifying realization there was a killer in their midst, Haven Park reels from one murder after another, at the diabolical hands of one of their own.

I had the opportunity to talk with Ms. Spencer about Independence Day, her journey as a writer and her decision to publish her book online.

Red and Yellow Socks: Thank you, Ms. Spencer, for taking the time to talk with me today.

Ms. Spencer: You are quite welcome! It is a pleasure.

Red and Yellow Socks: When did you begin writing, Independence Day?

Ms. Spencer: In 1997! Well, that’s halfway true. This story was originally written when I was 14 years old…and I did a rather piss poor job of it. Over the years, my writing matured and so did I, and I thought about this story a lot…wondering if I could try it again, with the knowledge of writing and storytelling I have now. So last year, in April, I just got this completely wild hair and decided to go for it. The original version, though, was almost nothing like this one. The characters names have (for the most part) stayed the same…but it’s a completely different story. The first version was a hot mess, with way too many characters, sloppy storylines and almost no characterization.

Red and Yellow Socks: Why and when did you choose to publish it online?

Ms. Spencer: I’ve always been an online person…a web fiction person. I wrote something called Behind Closed Doors for almost 10 years (1998-2006) and for the last three years of its life, I published it online. I just thought it would be a cool way to get readership and air it out there. I didn’t realize others were doing this at the time. I think it’s a great medium, because you are in control. You don’t have to bow to the whims of your publishers, you can write as much or as little as you want, and you have one-on-one communication with your readers. I find it the ideal medium for this story. Then, too, I like going beyond the traditional book format. I like pictures and extensive extras and all kinds of other bells and whistles that you can’t really pack into a paperback. Like the Special Edition DVDs.

Red and Yellow Socks: That would be fun if books came with a “special edition” with a bunch of extras.

Ms. Spencer: It would be. If I ever make it big, I’m making one.

Red and Yellow Socks: What is “Behind Closed Doors”?

Ms. Spencer: Behind Closed Doors was another period piece. It was set in the 1980s and it centered on the lives of musicians. I’m a music person and a 80s kid, so it worked out great for me. That is the project that taught me how to write, and I grew so much with it. I still love my characters so much, and one day, I hope to go back to it, to at least give it the proper conclusion it deserves. I will credit BCD with instilling a love of characters in me. I love to go into my characters, and I love to find out what makes them tick and think and feel. BCD taught me how important it was to know your characters.

Red and Yellow Socks: You mentioned not having to bow to the whims of a publisher, does that mean you wouldn’t want ID to be published as a book? Would you ever consider self-publishing?

Ms. Spencer: I would love for this story to be my first published work…the more I write it, the more I really see its potential. Actually, I see the potential for a book series, actually. I’ve been told that online publishing means no publishing house will touch you, since first rights are gone, so I guess that screws that. But, I have thought about writing a 2nd book in the series, getting THAT published, then publishing this myself as the “lost” first book of the story.

Red and Yellow Socks: Are you part of a writing community? If yes, what benefits do you find with being involved in that. If no, is there a reason why?

Ms. Spencer: I’m a part of two web fiction communities: APN (Absolute Productions Network) which is a network of sorts, housing many different web fiction series & their respective authors: http://oswmagazine.com – This has been a tremendous benefit to me, because the people there are so supportive. My feedback board on there is buzzing! They’re always so complimentary, and it’s so nice to see that my peers are enjoying my work so much. There are also places to post your writing issues, technical issues, etc. It’s a great community of support and giving unselfishly to one another. Another web fiction community I frequent is http://epiguide.com – this is the hub of the web fiction community, I think. Lots of interesting discussions going on there too. But I think, since APN is smaller, there’s more of a supportive atmosphere.

Red and Yellow Socks: Do you have critique partners either through these communities or outside of it? If yes, how did you choose your CP? Do you show your CP everything you write before you publish it?

Ms. Spencer: I’ve had bad experience with some…I tend not to go there on it as much. I had one that criticized every single keystroke & would sometimes take it upon themselves to rewrite a whole scene…yeah, not cool. I had someone great proof my prologue and first chapter, then kinda went at it alone for the next few. CPs are hard to find, because you want to strike the right balance. You don’t want them to gush all over it when it’s clearly shit, but you also don’t want them to criticize everything you’ve done and challenge the mood you’ve tried to set. Right now, I’m open to one if someone wants to volunteer, but I haven’t got anyone on any kind of retainer.

Red and Yellow Socks: How much, if any, prewriting do you do? Ex: outlining, synopsis, character building?

Ms. Spencer: My character building comes with every single chapter, I think. I wrote rather extensive biographies for them for the website, as well as a bunch of stuff in a notebook. I buy a notebook every time I start a project, and every character has a page. I try to write out every single thing I can think of, but sometimes, little nuances still pop up that surprise me. I like them. It makes them human. As for outlining, I always stick to a very basic outline. I have an entire outline in my head, of what needs to happen when. From there, I outline my chapters, generally 3 at a time, though I’ve gotten lazy and have been doing them one at a time lately. Just a very basic outline. Characters to use. Scene one: Two or three sentence description. Etc. I try not to confine myself so much, because sometimes they do take over and sometimes, that works out quite well. Other times, not so much….but that’s what the rewrite is for. I tend to take the most time on editing, because I am a perfectionist. I can only think of one chapter that I thought was perfect after the first draft. That is an incredibly rarity for me.

Red and Yellow Socks: Which chapter was that? How long do you generally work on a chapter?

Ms. Spencer: That was chapter 5, which was written in one workday, after that very bare outline. I just went with it. It was the first chapter I felt really just clicked, and the point I think that it’s where things started to really…get good. I’m biased, but that last scene with Shane and Brett really just…that was good stuff! I pulled out my red pen and intended to edit the hell out of it when I got home that day, but there was nothing to really edit. It just worked, I thought. Sadly, though, that was the one nobody really said anything about. Talk about a legend in your own mind!

A chapter can take me anywhere from one day to three months. Chapter 5 took one day, and Chapter 6 took three months. Sometimes, I am feeling it and sometimes, I’m just not. I always try to set a goal for myself when I start one. Like, “I wanna have this done by Tuesday!” It doesn’t always work out that way, but it does keep me mindful of a timeframe.

Red and Yellow Socks: You publish a new chapter every other Wednesday. Why did you decide to do that instead of say, a chapter a week?

Ms. Spencer: Really, to give people time to read and absorb. I understand people have lives, and I tend to write long chapters…I didn’t want to bombard anyone with text and overload them. I think 2 weeks is a nice little space between, giving people the chance to read it at their leisure, should they decide to. Also, it helps me on the backstage end, because it gives me more time to write ahead!

Red and Yellow Socks: How many chapters do you visualize for ID?

Ms. Spencer: Somewhere in the area of 50-75. I’ve been asked this many times, and I never seem to have a straight answer for it. To be honest with you, the thought of ending it terrifies me, because I am one of those freaks that becomes very attached! But I do know it has to end and that after Chapter 20, we’ll be entering the middle of the story, gearing up for the end. That kinda makes me sad, but I’m looking forward to seeing the story develop and change.

Ms. Spencer: I consider the third one to be the middle of the story, and that will be coming somewhere in the early 20s (chapter-wise)

Red and Yellow Socks: 3rd one?

Ms. Spencer: The third time the killer strikes.

Red and Yellow Socks: Speaking of the killer…When you began writing Independence Day, did you already know who the killer was?

Ms. Spencer: Yes. That is one thing that has not changed from one version to the next. But why has…before, it was one of those things that made perfect sense to a 14 year old, but would never fly today. I even devoted a page to that notebook I talked about earlier to “Why they did it”, with detailed explanations of why.

Red and Yellow Socks: Why set the story in the 60s and a small town in Wyoming?

Ms. Spencer: It was originally set in the 40s, which was a HUGE challenge for my 14-year-old self. I decided when revising it for this version, I would change that to the 60s, because I knew a bit more about it, and I thought it was a great time to be alive.

As for the setting, I wanted to choose the quietest place I could, to have the maximum impact. 517 people live here. Make that 515 now…it’s so small and so quaint and just so beautiful. This sort of thing does not happen here. It just doesn’t…thus maximizing the impact.

Red and Yellow Socks: Based on your experience, would you recommend publishing web fiction for new writers?

Ms. Spencer: Yes and no. If you do, be advised that it’s largely a hard nut to crack. Some people are extremely…um, elitist. Not all of them, and that is far from an accurate depiction of the community as a whole. But at times, yes, it can get rather disheartening, because everyone seems to love everyone else to death, and you have to stand on your head while singing in Chinese to get them to even glance twice at your site or take it seriously. But…if you do want to go into it, it is so much fun. It is wonderful to basically be your own boss, and if you hook up with the right people, you can find an amazing support system. And if I can add one more tip: Be aware that your genre will largely define whether or not you are accepted by certain people in web fiction.

Red and Yellow Socks: Thank you again, Ms. Spencer, for talking with me today! I wish you the best with Independence Day and all your future projects.

Ms. Spencer: Thank you so much. It was great fun!

Ms. Spencer has published the first ten chapters of Independence Day as well as two interludes, character bios, trivia and a special feature called “Author Insight”. Visit Independence Day at: http://haven-park.110mb.com/

You may also join Independence Day’s Facebook fan page here.

Letting Go

By: J. Danielle Tauscher

September 10, 2009

Alice stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  She certainly looked older.  She looked tired and empty, sad and worn down.  She was tired of being tired.  And tired of being what she thought she was supposed to be.  Tired of it all.  Alice’s eyes expressed all that she was feeling inside. She had to turn away.  It had been too long. She thought it should be over.  She figured by now that the hollow empty pit deep down inside her soul would have disappeared or at least filled up with something.  Maybe that’s why she overate?

Alice wanted it to be over.  She wanted to sleep and wake up to find that everything was better, that she was better.  But what did that mean?  Did she know anymore?  Would she recognize it? Alice still laughed until she cried.  She still joked and made happy memories but somewhere inside her there was a twinge of guilt.  She shouldn’t be happy.  She shouldn’t be laughing so hard that her stomach muscles hurt days after.  She shouldn’t make new memories.

No.  Alice stopped living.  Yes, she was breathing.  Yes, she was alive.  But she wasn’t living. She walked around in a fog.  She did what was expected of her.  She smiled and behaved. But she was empty.  Hollow.  Nothing.  Like an abyss had swallowed her soul.

But today she braved the mirror.  Alice turned her face back to the mirror determined to stand up to the demons that haunted her.  No longer afraid but scared of moving through this pain.  She had to do this for herself.  She needed to let go of the pain she held onto so tightly that she felt naked without it.  Alice needed to let go of the tears she stopped crying because they made her feel weak.  She needed to let go of the darkness that made her feel safe.  In the darkness she could be a little bit crazy.  In the darkness she could keep the world at arms’ length.

Alice needed to let her go.

Alice didn’t bring flowers; she brought a book.  She sat down next to the grave and let her knee hang over the edge of the headstone.  She traced her mom’s name with her fingers feeling the cold, hard stone against the softness of skin.  Alice hated coming here.  It made it real.  She could pretend her mom was simply away somewhere.  But here at the cemetery, everything was so final, permanent.

Alice didn’t know what to say.  She felt stupid talking to a slab of concrete in the ground.  So, she read the book instead.  She whispered the words as she read pages after pages aloud from the book.  She didn’t care that the words began to blur together or that she heard someone in the distance.  Alice just read.

She sat next to her mom’s grave for hours until she was finished with the book.  Alice hadn’t noticed the sun setting or the chill in the air.  Alice closed the book and cried.  She cried like she hadn’t cried since the day her mom died.  She let every last drop of the sadness and darkness and fear and hatred and death out with her tears.

It was time to move out of the pain of losing and into the heart of remembering.

It was time for Alice to wake up.

*The opening lines from the Holcombe Waller song, Risk of Change make me think of Grim.  They’re absolutely the way I see him. You can hear the song here: Holcombe Waller: Winter Songs

From Risk of Change

“I don’t know much, but I know you

You are the kind of magic always breaks my heart in two”

As you may know, Grim has been MIA for a couple of weeks. Wednesday morning I met Bernie and was thrilled to be writing her story. Towards the end of her story, Grim showed up. I was writing the kissing scene between Bernie and Desmond. Here’s how our conversation went:

Grim: I’m back.

Me: Busy.

Grim: Doing what?

Me: Writing.

Grim: *looks over my shoulder* I’m not in this story?

Me: Nope.

Grim: Why?

Me: You disappeared and I needed to write.

Grim: I’m back now.

Me: Yep.

Grim: Are you mad?

Me: Maybe. We’ll talk later. Need to finish this story.

Grim: Who’s this Desmond?

Me: Just a guy.

Grim: Maybe he should be on the list.

Me: Ssh. Let me finish. *mistakenly writes “Grim took Bernie’s hand and said, “On the count of three, we jump. 1…2…”*

Me: Grim.

Grim: What? It’s funny.

Me: Go sit over there. *pointing to the chair across the room*

Grim: You could make Desmond a ghost.

Me: He’s not a ghost.

Grim: But he could be. And what’s up with his name, Desmond?

Me: I like it. It’s kind of sexy.

Grim: Psh. Sexy. Yeah. You give some punk a name you think is sexy and I get “Grim.”

Me: That’s because you won’t tell me your real name.

Grim: It’s Desmond.

Me: You are not in this story.

Grim: I’m not sure if anyone will like this story. Toss it and start fresh.

Me: Gee. Thanks for the support.

Grim: It’s seriously lacking something.

Me: What’s that?

Grim: Death.

Me: *growls*

Later that night, Michelle Zink posted a flash fiction writing prompt. (You can read my piece here) I studied the picture for a few minutes, opened a new blank page and set the timer for 30 minutes. The first 15 minutes I wrote. The last 15 minutes I stared at the screen rereading what I wrote. And having this conversation:

Grim: This is a much better than that Desmond story.

Me: I can’t talk to you now.

Grim: Why? Didn’t you miss me?

Me: I did.

Grim: Aren’t you happy I’m back?

Me: I am.

Grim: Me too. So what’s the problem?

Me: She’s on the list?

Grim: Oh, that.

Me: Yeah. That. Why?

Grim: It makes sense. It has to be this way.

Me: Why?

Grim: You’ll see.

Me: *mumbles something that sounds like a threat*

Grim: Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?

Me: I do.

Grim: Hang on tight, sweetheart. I promise this will be good.

Michelle Zink posted another Flash Fiction Prompt for this week’s “Thursday Night Writes”. Check out what these fantastic writers wrote this week at her blog: http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/

Here’s my entry. Enjoy!

I followed the broken path that cut through the woods in search of her. She had kicked me in the shin and run off after I told her what I was and that I loved her. She said she didn’t believe me, wouldn’t believe the truth behind my eyes. She called me a liar and disappeared within the lush landscape of greens and browns.

I hollered for her, the shakiness of my own voice catching me off guard. I sounded scared and unsure of myself. Did I believe the truth in what I said to her? Was I capable of love? Hadn’t I known love once upon a time? Didn’t someone love me? Wasn’t it love that failed me before?

I chased after the shadows the trees and sun made to play tricks on my weak mind. What if I never found her? Was I being punished for what I’d done? I couldn’t blame her for hating me. I hated myself every time I entered into someone’s life and snatched away their last breath with promises and lies of a better existence.

I could offer nothing that was better than a life. There was nothing better than being alive. I discovered this too late.

I rushed around in a panic, lost deep in the forest.

I couldn’t turn back now.

I couldn’t lose her.

She was on the list.

BRAVE AS A BEAR

By: J. Danielle Tauscher

Bernie had the misfortune of having a boy’s name. Although her mom claimed there was nothing boyish about the name Bernadette, Bernie had to disagree. She looked it up once and discovered that it’s the feminine of the name Bernard and that it meant ‘Brave as a bear’. That was indeed a boy’s name. An old man’s name, actually.

She hated the name Bernadette more than she hated the name Bernie, so she kept the nickname her father gave her before he left. It was, after all, the only thing he gave her before he ran away from home with what little money they had.

Bernie didn’t hate her father for doing that. She believed that you had to know a person in order to truly hate them and she didn’t know him. Her mom kept photos of him in the bottom drawer of her dresser, but didn’t tell Bernie about them. She acted like he never existed, which was okay with Bernie. He was a vague memory of hers she was most certain she had made up in order to blend in with the kids at school.

Bernie had one friend named Tallulah, which wasn’t any better than Bernie, but at least it was a girl’s name and it meant ‘Princess’. Tallulah never let anyone forget that. She acted like she was entitled to special privileges because of it. Bernie wasn’t sure how she should act with a name that meant, “Brave as a bear” so she ignored it.

They made a strange pair, but Bernie liked having Tallulah as her friend. Tallulah had three older sisters where Bernie had none. She didn’t even have a brother. She liked to pretend she was part of Tallulah’s family when she was alone at night. She imagined being tucked in at night by a mother and father who still loved each other and more importantly still loved her. Bernie loved going over there for dinner and was always excited when her mom said yes. She knew it gave her mom a break from the little responsibility she felt towards Bernie.

At thirteen, Bernie was becoming a better cook than her mom, having made herself dinner more times than she could remember. It started around the time she was seven. Mom would forget to feed her, so Bernie would eat cereal for dinner. After she became bored with cereal she began to experiment with other foods. She made herself peanut butter sandwiches for a while. Eventually, she braved the stove and began to make herself soups and grilled cheese sandwiches. Bernie branched out and whipped up spaghetti or pizzas. The birthday money her Grandparents had sent bought a used Betty Crocker cookbook probably published sometime in the early eighties. Bernie didn’t care. She loved cooking even if no one but her was around to eat it.

Her mom didn’t know what to do with Bernie during summer vacations so she would try to pawn her off on relatives or neighbors. Tallulah went away on family vacations for the summers, which Bernie was never invited to go, even though Tallulah begged her parents. It was hard enough controlling four teenage girls, adding Bernie to the mix would have been too much. Plus, Bernie’s mom never sent her anywhere with money. If Bernie went to the movies with Tallulah, it was Tallulah’s parents who had to pay. It added up.

When she was eleven, it was easy to plop her in front of the television or with a stack of books from the library and go to work. Bernie was allowed to play outside in the front yard only because her mom would call to check in on her. It took a couple of summers for Bernie to realize her mom would never call. Bernie decided to spend her days at the lake instead of cooped up at home. What her mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

The lake is where she met Desmond.

In her letters to Tallulah, she never mentioned him. He was her secret. Tallulah wrote about all the boys she met at whatever beach resort she was spending her summer. Bragged about how she let one boy kiss her and another touch her slow to develop boobs under her shirt. That was one thing Bernie had over Princess Tallulah. Bernie’s boobs started to grow when she was eleven and two years later, she wrapped them with ace bandages to down play how large they’d become. It was bad enough to have a boy’s name; she didn’t need boobs before everyone else. Bernie didn’t like to stand out; she was certainly not living up to her name. She preferred to blend into the shadows. Boobs made it difficult to blend.

Tallulah wrote about the thirteen year old pimply boys that flocked to her in awkward movements, who were all arms and legs, gangly mishaps of puberty. She was proud of her many admirers. That rubbed Bernie the wrong way. Tallulah was always doing that to her, making it seem like she lived this marvelous life where poor Bernie was lucky if a boy noticed she was a girl in the first place.

But Desmond noticed.

And Desmond wasn’t a thirteen-year-old pimply boy who hadn’t grown into his body. No. Desmond was sixteen, tall and in command of his body. He was a “man of the world” as his name suggested. He had muscles in his arms and legs Bernie imagined were reserved for a special breed of men. Desmond was tanned, never wore a shirt or shoes and hung out with the drinking crowd on the lake.

Bernie watched them from her place beneath the tree, nestled into the curve of the trunk that seemed to be made just for her. The branches graced the water like fingertips on skin. She wanted to be a part of his group, if only to have someone other than the odd kid to talk to. She wondered what a beer might tastes like and if she should bum a cigarette from one of them just to make small talk.

Yet she wasn’t that adventurous, definitely not brave as a bear. Bernie kept to herself, preferring to read the books she brought with her. She just liked to watch them and imagine what it would be like to be older and in their crowd.

It never occurred to her that someone might be watching her as well.

Read the rest of this entry »

I’m taking a leave of absence from my internet presence.

Thanks for reading my words. I hope to see you again soon.

dt

~Writing~

The past week I haven’t been consistent with the time I spent writing. I like setting my timer, losing myself inside the music playing inside my head (I wear headphones) and writing. Sometimes I don’t hear when the timer dings or I forget to set it. The timer forces me to write. Some of the best writing I did last week was during The Nephew and my snow day. I had to write in 35 minute sessions. That absolute forced me to get straight into it. It also reminded me that I don’t need an absolute distraction-free work environment. Having a soon-to-be five year old talk to you while you’re writing is an interesting experience. The point is tht I did it.

I don’t have a specific time that I write, though when I’m home it’s usually around 10:30a.m.  This week I’m back with my butt in the chair, timer, music and all that jazz. Oh! And my coffee.

~Reading~

I can’t seem to focus my attention on reading anything these days. It’s weird because I love to read. My brain seems to shut down when I open up a book. I have to read passages more than once. I feel like the books are written in a foreign tongue. It’s like I’ve suddenly forgotten how to read. I don’t like it. I wonder if it has something to do writing Grim. When I was writing my Finn/Daniel (the angels) stories, I got bogged down with the recent onslaught of angels in YA. I compared my story to the ones I was reading. Plus I was constantly asking everyone for their opinions about my story. I might be afraid to read these days because I don’t want that to happen with Grim, which is kind of silly. Grim isn’t the first Reaper story.

~Grim~

What can I say about him? I was writing about my angels when he popped into my head. I scribbled his name down and went about my business. I thought I might write shorts about him when I struggled with my angels. Originally, Grim wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a go-to character to help stretch my brain when it was blocked.

One day he came back to me and asked that I write his story. I agreed after the offer of coffee. When I started thinking about his story, it seemed to me that it would be a story about grief. There would be a girl. Her mom would have died and Grim would have been the reaper to have taken her soul. I had visions of the girl and Grim talking about death and grieving. But I kept hitting this block when it came to the girl. Why would she like Grim? She would be angry at him for taking her mom. She’d have someone to blame and take out her pain on. It would take a long time before she would sit down with Grim and talk to him.

I had a difficult time writing her. She didn’t feel right to me. I’d introduce her and Grim would kick her out. Every time. Every scene. Until one day, I introduced Leigh to Grim and I believe he swooned. We had a winner! The kicker: She’s a happy character. I’m not sure I can write “happy.” She’s bringing too much happiness into my story. It’s kind of bothering me. Plus, I’ve lost direction. I had an idea that isn’t working now and now a new idea I’m not sure how to work.

I saw such a different tale for Grim.

I’ve never written a novel before, only short stories. It’s a strange experience. I get excited over page numbers and word counts until I realize how far from the end I truly aim. I also do a lot of editing as I go along which I’m trying not to. I want to have a completed first draft. It’s such an exciting experience that I don’t want to get stressed about it.

I’ve talked about him way too much. I’m going to keep him closer to me for a while. He and I have a lot of writing to do without all the distractions I put on myself. I aim to have fun with this character. After all, he’s mine. And I have the power to do whatever I want in my own story.

~dt~

I have been trying for a few years to write about my mom. I can’t. So today, in honor of her birthday, I decided to post some pictures and a video I made of my mom. Happy Birthday, Mommy! I miss you and I love you so much. I’m working on becoming the madwoman I admired in you!

Mom, Dad and Shadow

Mom and Me 2003

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Mommy

Mom and Dad October 2003

Mom and Me

Family back in the day!

The wonderful Michelle Zink posted a flash fiction writing prompt in lieu of Open Mic this week. Upon seeing the picture, I figured I’d skip the challenge. What could I possibly write about two people with a computer holding hands? Apparently, I can find Death in everything. Should I be worried or excited that Grim invades stories that are not meant to be about him? Should I be frightened or thrilled that he’s constantly talking to me and encouraging me to put my butt in the chair and write? I’m happy he’s here. I want him to stick around. I hope you’ll like him too, one day, when I decide to share more than a few words at a time.

Anyhow: This is what I posted tonight on Michelle’s Writing Prompt. Clearly, you can see how I got death out of this picture, right? Right?!

Adelaide insisted we bring the computer although I told her that it wasn’t allowed. She didn’t care. She wanted to return it to Charlie before we left. She said it was the right thing to do. Adelaide was about doing the right things in life so it made sense that even in death she wanted to do the same.

We didn’t have much time, only about forty minutes, to get from her place to Charlie’s. The train seemed to creep along like a shadow stalking its prey. I wouldn’t normally go to this extreme to help the living with a final wish, but I liked the way Adelaide smiled at me even with the knowledge of who I was. She hadn’t asked how she would die, just accepted that it was happening nor did she offer anything in exchange for me allowing her this borrowed time.

I liked the way her fingers folded into mine. Her hand was warm and a little sweaty. I didn’t mind. Someone was touching me. Someone wanted to touch me. She could have punched me repeatedly in the arm and I would have accepted it because it meant a living person was touching me. I couldn’t remember how long it had been that I felt the warmth of anything alive. When I take the hand of the dying, I get a hint of warmth from them, but it quickly fades into the iciness of death.

I had to lean into Adelaide to hear her voice over the sounds of the trains. People around us were busy talking or reading or distracting themselves with gadgets. The train bobbed and weaved us around the city like a boxer in a ring. No one seemed to care or notice the odd couple leaning like lovers into the other one’s space. I felt Adelaide’s breath, the warmth and slight wetness of words kissing my cheek.

I may have fallen in love with her in the moments leading up to her death. I hadn’t the heart for such action, nor the stomach to tell her the truth.

We were not going to make it in time to return the computer to Charlie.